“Nothing, I assure you,” replied the other; “there’s not a trace of him to be seen, is there, Mr Walters?” The first mate shook his head. “We’re far enough off now from the spot where he fell in. It’s in mercy to you, sir, that he’s been taken away.”
Frank sank upon a seat, and buried his face in his hands, sobbing bitterly.
Yes; the tempter was gone, gone to his account—suddenly cut off in the midst of his sins, hurried away in righteous retribution by the very death himself had planned for Jacob Poole. Yes; the tempter was gone, and the tempted still remained. Would he take home to his heart the lesson and warning God had thus sent him? The tempter was gone, but, alas! the temptation was not gone. Frank had even now in his cabin several flasks of that drink which had already borne such miserable fruits for himself and the guilty wretch just hurried into the presence of his offended God. He had bought the spirits from Juniper at an exorbitant price, but would he use them now, after what had happened? The night after Juniper’s awful death he sat in his cabin weeping. Thoughts of home, of mother, father, Mary, crowded in upon his heart. The days that once were, when he would have joined with real willingness and hearty earnestness the band of abstainers, as he sat in all boyish sincerity at Mr Bernard Oliphant’s table, eager to make the trial and bear the cross, were fresh upon his memory now. And all the bitter past, with its shameful, degrading, sinful records, gathered its thick shadows round his soul. What should he do? He sank upon his knees and prayed—prayed to be forgiven, prayed that he might do better—and then he rose, and was in part comforted. And now, what should he do with the spirits which were still in his possession? He took them out and ranged the flasks on his berth. His scuttle stood open. One minute and he could have thrown them all into the sea. Conscience said, “Do it, and do it at once.” But another voice whispered, “Pity to waste so much good stuff; drink these out, but only a moderate quantity at a time, and then you can renounce the drink for ever.” He listened to the second voice, and conscience sighed itself to sleep.
Alas! alas! what fiend like the fiend of drink? It can steal away every good resolution, drown the voice of conscience, and make a man cheat himself into the belief that the indulgence of to-day is a warrant and guarantee for the abstinence of to-morrow. Frank was satisfied; he felt sure that it would be wiser to wean himself gradually from his drinking habits; he would use the strictest moderation with his present little stock, and then he should more readily forsake it altogether when this was gone. And so he continued to drink, but more and more sparingly, as he himself supposed, because he was really training himself to a gradual surrender of the drink, but in reality because he dreaded to be left altogether without it. And so the taste was kept up during the remainder of the voyage, and Frank Oldfield landed on the shores of his native country with the thirst strong upon him.
Chapter Twenty One.
Homeless and Heartless.
The Sabrina was bound for Liverpool, and entered that port some two years after the time when she left it with Hubert Oliphant and Frank Oldfield as fellow-passengers. Alas! how different were the feelings of the latter now, from those with which he trod the deck of that vessel when preparing for his temporary exile. Then, though sad, he was full of hope; now he was both heartless and hopeless; he knew he was the bond-slave of the drink, and, whatever he might say to others, he felt in his own heart that it was useless any longer to try and cheat himself with the transparent phantom of a lie. Yet he could not for shame acknowledge thus much to others, nor would he allow his conscience to state it deliberately to himself; he still clung to something, which was yet neither conviction nor hope, that he might even now master his besetting sin. Alas! he desired the good end, but he would not use the only means to that good end; and so, when he landed on the soil of the old country again, it was with the settled determination, (though he would not have believed his own handwriting, had he put down that determination on paper) not to give up the drinking of intoxicating liquors at present. How then should he face his parents and Mary Oliphant? He could not face them at all as yet. He could not at once make up his mind what to do. Happily for him, Juniper Graves had been cut off before he had been able to effect a complete spoliation of his master, so that Frank had still rather more than two hundred pounds in his possession. While this money lasted, he resolved to stave off the evil day of taking any decided step. He would not write to his mother or Mary till he had quite made up his mind what course he was intending to pursue. He was also well aware that the family of Bernard Oliphant could give him no welcome with his present habits of excess still upon him. So, on the day of reaching Liverpool, he said to Jacob Poole,—
“Well, Jacob, are you quite tired of my service, or will you stay by me a little longer? I’ve no right or wish to stand in your way, and if you would like to make another voyage with Captain Merryweather, or can find any other situation that will suit you better than mine, I would not have you consider yourself bound to me at all.”